Finest Hypocrisies
by Hardwood Studios
Summary: Harvey hurts Mike. Mike doesn't come back. And so Harvey will travel to the far corners of the universe, do anything and everything it takes to prove he cares. Because Mike Ross belongs to Harvey Specter, and that's just how it is. [Harvey/Mike]
1. Broken

_A/n: New obsession! Crazy, right? A new obsession, already. It's been like...an entire two weeks since my Sherlock Holmes craze. God, I have a problem. Anywho, Suits is tap dancing across my brain in sparkly italian loafers, and I can't move on until I write something slashy. I was mauled by plot bunnies last night, yo. They were vicious little bastards, the minions of Satan! Seriously though. Who doesn't love Suits? All the suffocating sexual tension between Mike Harvey, choking the shit out of me? It's awesome. So very awesome. _

_So this is probably, most likely, going to be a chapter story. Or maybe an incredibly long Oneshot, depending on how much effort I put into this first piece. It's angsty and dramatic, and there's a whole lot of whumpage in store for Mike. That boy is gonna get whumped! Is whumped a word? It is now, bitch. So Harvey's a careless asshole who makes a whole lot of mistakes, and ends up driving Mike away. He does anything and everything to get Mike back, and suffers massive guilt attacks every few seconds. Because Harvey can really piss me off. And he needs to suffer a little bit, goddamnit. _

_Erm...Lemon? Maybe? Possibly? Depends on how I feel when I get to that point, which will probably be a week from now. I'm slow like that, man. So painfully slow. Oh, and I just now watched the new episode. I know Katrina Bennett __**does **__actually work pretty hard, mainly just to one-up Mike, but she's going to be horribly lazy for the sake of this story._

* * *

It was roughly twenty sleepless hours into the work day that Mike began to feel it. The pressure. His eyes were blurring and stumbling over the words, ink blots taking shape on the page. He could feel the beginnings of a tremble in his fingers. He wanted to-to...

He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted. Thoughts were running together and buzzing like static in the back of his brain. He sought out the nearest clock. It was just after _six_, and Mike felt himself go slack with hopeless resignation. Only six? _Only _fucking six? "Fuck." He murmured, barely audible in the stale quiet of the file room. Mike pressed the heel of his palm into the burning pits that were his eye sockets. He was on the verge of mental collapse. But he couldn't leave, not until these briefs were thoroughly and _painstakingly _picked apart.

Precarious towers of manila and freshly printed paper ensconced him on all sides, taunting him with their sheer teetering mass. Multinational Double Merger for Harvey, Insurance Fraud for Louis, Environmental Protection dispute for Katrina. He wants to laugh hysterically when his pen runs out of ink. "'S too much." His eyelids were falling fast and heavy. But he couldn't leave. He couldn't.

Harvey would be disappointed again.

And so Mike powered through. He worked himself into near catatonia, just barely catching onto the loopholes and deal breakers. He manages to drag himself from the crisp cocoon of parchment and plastic by half past seven, and straggles into the elevator. He will gift Harvey with the fruits of his labor, be brushed aside like a particularly infinitesimal insect, and then _sleep_. He can _feel _the starchy linen of his pillowcase pressing against his cheek, the dent of his mattress molding to the familiar contours of his body.

He almost moaned.

The ping of the elevator rouses him from his strangely erotic fantasy. Aluminum doors hiss open, and Harvey Specter is _there_. Posing dramatically, like Superman standing on top of the world. Or maybe that's just the sleep deprivation. Harvey offers him a dry quirk of the brow. "You look like hell." And isn't that such a _Harvey Specter _thing to say. Mike wants to feel offended, but he can't summon the energy.

"I think that's the sweetest thing you've said to me all day." He croons sarcastically. Harvey steps in next to him, and smirks _that _smirk. "Is that for me?" He gestures to the thick manila file in his arms, and Mike brightens. "You're damn right it is. Took me awhile, but I found the loophole that will get you into the Stinson-Stella merger." Harvey takes the file with a barely-there-look of satisfaction.

"Congratulations, kid. It seems you're not totally useless."

Mike pauses.

…Ouch. Just _ouch_. Harvey has said similar things to him, but this time it _sticks_. Like a stray arrow finally hitting the mark. And it hurts. His chest tightens and coils, his lungs stutter soundlessly. Countless _hours_ of work - no food, no sleep, no _coffee_ - delivered free of error and on time, _despite _the unreasonable deadline. He doesn't expect much, not from Harvey. A 'Good job, Mike' at most, an appreciative nod at the very least.

Instead, he is deemed 'not totally useless'.

"I'll review these later tonight. I have an important meeting to attend first, so don't bother me." By meeting, Mike is certain he means the routine bag and tag of some nameless supermodel. He doesn't say anything, because he knows Harvey won't care. But _he _cares. He cares a little more than he should. They stand in sort-of-awkward silence, with Mike licking his emotional wounds and Harvey oblivious to the damage he's dealt, until they reach the lobby.

Mike hurries from the building, tossing a quick and cracked 'Later, Boss' over his shoulder. He doesn't look back, doesn't watch as Harvey slides into the back of his car with grace and poise and everything that Mike Ross is not. He unlocks his bike, and slings the chain around his neck. He lacks the strength to pedal such a daunting distance, and settles for walking. Sometimes settling can be a bad thing.

The street is dark, and silent, and lifeless, and Mike kind of thinks he just stepped onto the set of a Wes Craven film. Shadows congregate in the corners and crevices of every alleyway, _waiting _to lash out and drag him down. The mind-numbing-drowsiness is all but gone, a stark bright anxiety left in its place. "It's only a few blocks, Mike. You're a grown man." He chastised himself, his voice sounding frail and fractured to his own ears.

He hastens his pace, peeking over his shoulder every few seconds. It's all so embarrassingly cliché, _predictable_, and Mike should have damn well seen it coming. He glances back for the umpteenth time, hearing phantom footfalls just behind him. And then he _collides _with something hard and immovable. A person. Mike breathes in too sharply as large hands clamp around his biceps. He whips around, and tries not to asphyxiate on his own tongue.

It's an unkempt bear of a man, tall as Goliath and wider than his goddamn refrigerator. Mike flinches back, cataloging every bedraggled detail out of some desperate instinct. Eyes like a shark, glassy and hungry black. Square and shoddy jaw, matted thicket of flaxen curls. _Muscle like stone _and _cheap, tattered polyester jacket. _He reeked of whiskey and ferality, his upper lip curled back over yellowing teeth and trembling. Mike tried calling out, but could only whimper. He was so _fucked_.

"Wha-What do you want?" His throat was closing up around his words. He smiled, tapered with sinister intentions. "What a prett'y li'l poppet I've found." An Englishman, his accent thick and unmistakable. Mike paled, jerking from the wash of rancid breath. "Please, I-" He was _choking_ on fear. Hot and heavy hands were slipping over him, cupping the back of his neck and delving down his side. "Relax, Poppet." He chuckles low in his throat. "All 'm goin'ta take is your coin. I'll leave the rest'a ya for my dreams."

Mike feels fingers pressing into his coat pocket, rummaging through its sparse contents. His wallet is promptly discovered and seized, and he sputters out a half hearted protest. "Maybe we'll see 'chother again." He purrs. Mike is suddenly and jarringly pushed aside, as the thieving bastard beats a hasty retreat into the alley. He stumbles over the curb, his ankle _twisting _and _snapping_ with a subdued pop, and smacks against the road.

His vision goes white. And then black. And then fizzles back into shape and color. He is eerily calm, and his body is strangely numb. He takes a moment to remember. And swallows back the tears. The pain hits him all at once, like fucking _lightning _bolts and tidal waves. His stomach rolls, and a tremor manifests underneath his skin. With a shaky inhale, he risks a look at his ankle. His foot is corkscrewed like a macabre mattress spring, and Mike can see the distinct rise of bone pressing against skin. "_Shit!_"

A keening breath, and then he's panicking. "Shit! _Fuck_, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!" Rapid gasping, and wide eyed horror. Mike needs to be calm, and he's _trying_. He closes his eyes, and takes in slow gulps of nighttime air. He seriously wants to vomit, and sob, and get lost in the panic attack hovering at the edges of his mind. But he doesn't, because he's a _grown goddamn man_. He breathes through the fire and electricity and _pain_, and pulls together a ration of higher thought. He walks himself through the facts.

It's dark. He's alone. He has no wallet. His ankle is quite obviously broken, hindering his ability to move or defend himself. Mike grits his teeth, and _clings _to his last vestiges of composure. He needs to prioritize. Priority number one, get out of the street. Priority number two, medical attention. Priority number three, put all debit and credit cards on hold. Priority number four, buy a fucking car. Priority number one seemed like a good place to start.

He take a couple hundred more deep breaths, and steels himself. With shaking arms, he crawls onto the sidewalk in slow, tiny movements. His ankle scrapes across the concrete, and he _screams _like shattered glass. Tears drench his cheeks, and he babbles hysterical nonsense into the ground. Black spots are decorating his vision, and he thinks he might be passing out. "Calm down, _fuck_, you need to calm down." He blubbers, panting and spasming. It takes him ten horrible minutes to calm down.

A solution. He thinks, and thinks, and _thinks_, before finally remembering the phone that sits in his pocket. "Duh!" He hisses, and carefully retrieves it. His ankle cries out like a needy babe, and he does his best to shush it. Mike's first instinct is to call Harvey. So he does. The dial tone is like needles to his ears, and he's starting to taste pennies behind his teeth. He's panicking again, _pleasedon'tletmedie_, and then-

"_I thought I told you not to bother me." _

Harvey doesn't sound pleased, but his voice is like _music_. The relief is potent and immediate, and he _basks _in it. Mike presses the phone to his ear and lets loose a shuttering exhale. _Thank God, thank God, thank __**God **__for Harvey fucking Specter. _

"Harvey, I-"

"_Let me just stop you right there._" Cold, clipped, annoyed. Mike blinks at the tone.

"_Whatever you're about to say, it is not my concern. Handle it on your own." _Click. And Mike was alone again.

He stares into nothingness for a long moment. He tries to think, but no thoughts will surface. He doesn't know what to think about. His hand slumps to the ground, and his fingers loosen around the phone. Maybe Harvey _doesn't _care. Maybe all those vehement denials and deflections were _truths_. The realization feels like an open-palmed-slap to the face. He closes his eyes, and tries to slow the rapid beating of his heart.

His emotions are seeping out of him, pooling in the grimy cracks of the sidewalk. It hurts, almost as much as his probably-shattered-ankle. He didn't get a chance to speak, or explain. He needed help, and Harvey just _hung up_. Because apparently Mike wasn't his concern, he wasn't _important _enough. The thought was too bitter and too painful. He opened watery eyes, and just breathed. In and out. In and out. _Normalcy_.

Who could he call? He had no parents, no living relatives, no _friends_. Rachel? No, she was still angry. He couldn't remember why. There was no one he could call, no one that _cared _enough to bother. Mike coughed out a broken sob. God, his life _sucked_. "I could always call a cab." His laugh was bitter and miserable. Beggars can't be choosers. He dialed the number of a reliable taxi service.

"_1-800-TaxiCab, please state the city or metro area you need service."_

"New York City, 35th and Main." He wheezed. Talking was something of a chore.

"_Our nearest car is en route, and will arrive shortly_." The reply was short and impersonal, but it filled Mike with warmth. He murmured his gratitude, and ended the call. Now to play the waiting game. He sat up slowly and gingerly, perching himself on the curb. He stretched his leg out, and nearly bit his tongue in half at the fresh spikes of hot hurt. It took fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds for headlights to flash through the twilight veil, and it was the _longest _fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds of his considerably short life. He alternated between deep breathing exercises, counting bricks, and fighting back tears.

The cabbie pulled alongside the curb, and rolled down his window. His skin was dark, dusky and caramel, and his face soft and friendly. "Are you going to get in, my friend?" Mike could hear subtle threads of an Ethiopian accent. He grimaced, and gestured to the gruesome twist of his ankle. "I would, but I kind of...can't walk."

The cabbie jumped back with a loud shout. "Holy-! Jesus, man!" He scrambled out of the car, and took a knee beside him. His hands were hovering as if to touch, but there was hesitancy in the fine shake of his fingertips. Mike tried to smile. "I know it isn't part of the job, but would you mind...helping me in?" He asked weakly, shame coloring his cheeks. The cabbie gave a jerky nod. His eyes were wide and frantic. "Yes, yes, absolutely!"

It took them ten minutes and forty six seconds to get him strapped in. _Ten miserable minutes_. His foot couldn't bear any weight, couldn't even _touch the ground_, and he relied almost entirely on the cabbie's impressive upper body. He lay stiff as a board in the back seat, and concentrated on keeping still. Mike could feel eyes flashing at him in the mirror, probing and concerned. "The hospital?" The cabbie asked.

He huffed out a half-laugh-half-whimper, and the cabbie dropped his shoulders in an awkward shrug. "Dumb question. But you can never be too sure. Americans are crazy, you know?" He explained, his accent thickening in his stress. Mike might have laughed under different circumstances. "I get it. We Americans aren't the most stable bunch." He paused, and closed his eyes. "Any hospital, preferably the closest."

And then they were driving, slow but steady. Mike held himself tense against the worn vinyl, and ached for a distraction. _Any _distraction. "Thank you for this." He said for lack of anything more elegant. He could almost _feel _the cabbie smile. "Anyone would have done it." He sounded solemn, and Mike tried not to snort. "Haven't lived in New York very long, huh?" And yes, he _was _being cynical. He was in pain, goddamnit.

"Ah, is it that obvious? I only recently move here." A bashful chuckle, and the mood was lifting like storm clouds under the sun.

"Where _are _you from? I'm guessing Ethiopia, maybe Northern Kenya." He was genuinely curious. The cabbie shot him a startled look. "Ethiopia. How did you...?" He was in awe, and Mike preened under the attention. "Not obvious, but you have a pretty distinct accent." Damn, did it feel good to show off.

"Impressive, my friend!" The cabbie rumbled out a laugh. It carried over him like a soothing balm, and Mike slackened into the seat. He was grateful to this man, for being there when Mike needed someone. Even if he was just doing his job. The ride passed in what felt like seconds, with the exchange of easy small talk and light banter. It was comfortable and he didn't have to think._ His life had wilted in to a sad story, of which loneliness is the theme_. Thinking was a simple recipe for depression.

When they pulled into the Emergency Room, Mike was at a loss. How exactly was he supposed to-? But then Mr. Ethiopia (...well what else is he supposed to call him?) was leaping from the car, and helping Mike to stand. It was a-thousand-times-embarrassing, but necessary. He all but _carried _Mike to the nurse's station, and he realized just how _much _he owed this man. His health, his safety, and maybe even his life.

The nurse glanced up at him through carmine lashes, and frowned. She looked down, and her face tightened at the unnatural twist of his ankle. "Nurse Hendee! I need a wheelchair. _Now_. " She called to a passing colleague, a tinge of urgency in her voice. Mike was both impressed with her observational skills, and relieved that he didn't have to speak. He was so _exhausted_, the adrenaline was abating and he was left limp. Mr. Ethiopia lowered him into the wheelchair like he was something precious and delicate. "Thanks. I owe you, man." He mumbled, offering his fist for a well-deserved-bump.

Dark knuckles clattered against his pale ones, and the cabbie was smiling like summer time. "I'll be waiting outside."

Mike watched him leave. Someone was waiting for him, even if just a nameless cabbie, and it felt good. A big bleeding part of him wished it were Harvey, standing outside with that 'I'm-Incredibly-Concerned-But-Will-Never-Openly-Show-It' expression Mike loved. But that was a far fetched notion, and it smoldered in his brain like a dying coal. He let his head fall back, shark-bite-pain and nerve-numbing-weariness taking its toll.

He was tottering on the peak of a blackout as they wheeled him into a too white room. He was stripped and spread out and pumped full of drugs, and it was like a cloud taking shape against his back. He felt weightless. His mind was adrift through a stormy sea of memories, some fond and some fragile. He couldn't feel his body, so he thought. He thought about Trevor and Jenny, the flawed _part_ that he peeled away. He missed that flawed part. He thought about his Grammy, her withered hands and wooden chess pieces. The way she used to pepper his face with kisses, and laugh like she was young.

He thought about the cabbie and his yellow cab. A friendly face in a heartless city. He thought about his shoebox apartment, with the carefully managed chaos and wonderfully pointless panda painting. He thought about Pearson Hardman, Donna and Rachel and _Louis_. He kind of liked Louis. He thought about long nights with shuttered lights and ink stained fingertips. The whir and whistle of printing paper, keyboards clicking and clacking. He thought about romance and revenge, the meaning of life. _His _life.

He thought about Harvey Specter. Three-piece-suits, and perfectly knotted ties. Chestnut locks gelled into _style_, goddamn beautiful moles. He thought about a strong jaw, and handsomely furrowed brow. Dark eyes that _fuck _and pick you apart with simple flicks and glances. Broad shoulders, chiseled and cut up to _intimidate_. He thought about big capable hands, calloused and refined. Lips that can frown and smirk and kind-of-smile. Cocky, charismatic, perfection.

He thought about the hurt that thrummed deep down. The resentment and tightly corded sadness. All the tears that burned behind his pupils, and all the things he wanted to say. He thought about telling Harvey the truth. How much he cared, _loved_. How his heart strings were tied to those long fingers, to be tugged and manipulated at will. But then he laughed that thought away. His heart would surely be chucked in the trash.

_Beep_. _Beep_. _Beep_. Mike woke up to bright overhead lights. He winced, and clapped a hand over his eyes. His mouth was filled with cotton, and his world was a fluttering fog. There was a tight firmness encasing his foot, and he recognized it as a cast. Plastic, not plaster. He steadied himself, and took a quick peek. His right leg was trussed up in complicated strapping, and sheathed in a hard plastic boot. It was ugly and unnatural, and Mike _hated_ it. He sighed, and slouched into the mattress. "Fuck my life."

He recognized the fine slide of a hospital gown over his skin, and sought out his clothing. They were folded and stacked neatly on the tabletop, a small tin of his personal belongings sitting next to the careful crinkles and creases. As if sensing his stare, his phone began to vibrate and shiver in the metal tin. It was like raindrops thundering in a gutter, and his ears pinched at the sound. He snatched it up.

_Harvey _dominated the screen.

Mike answered it without pause. "Harvey." He started, pleased for some unfathomable reason.

"_I went through the files. Where the hell are the Carmical briefs?_" He was _angry_, Mike could hear the scarlet in his voice. He frowned, confused and a smidge concerned. "Carmical briefs?"

"_Yes, Mike. The Carmical briefs._" Sarcasm. Mike flinched. "_Katrina gave them to you this morning. You volunteered, remember?_" He was barking like a beast, and Mike felt his heart sink into the soles of his feet. "V-Volunteered? I-" He never got the _chance_.

"_Don't bother with another goddamn excuse. I get that you want to prove yourself, but right now? You've proven yourself to be nothing but a fucking mistake. You can barely finish your own work, you have absolutely no business volunteering for more. Katrina should have known better than to let you handle it._" And those words were enough to destroy him, crush his soul into colorless dust, and bring a quiver to his lips. _Excuse_? _Mistake_? He blinked back the damp heat.

"But I-!" Strangled, he tried to get out a simple _sentence_. _But I never volunteered, please __**listen**_.

"_Stop. I don't want to hear it. The Carmical case will either make or break me, and you fucked up. I should fire you right fucking now._" He was snarling, so _angry_. Mike bit back a high, quiet sound. It wasn't his _fault_, it wasn't! If Harvey would just listen-!

"_I want you in the office at four, Mike. You __**will **__fix this, and maybe I'll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are_." The call ended with a crippling lack of noise.

Mike breathed in hitches and gasps, his eyes misting over. He could feel his red organ folding in on itself, wailing for a reprieve. His skin felt too hot, and his brain felt too full. He wasn't sure how to move his arms. The phone slipped from his palm, slick and clammy, and hit the pillow with a quiet thump. Harvey thought he was a disappointment. _Harvey_. The man he trusts, and respects, and _lives _to impress. _Loves_.

Mike works hard, he _knows _he works hard. He does triple the work of your average associate, and he does that work with a mostly cheerful disposition. He likes to work hard, to accomplish his goals through his own hand. Even if he has to sacrifice a few hours of sleep and skip the occasional meal, that's okay. He's doing something _worthwhile_. Mike should be thrilled and fulfilled, but he _isn't_. He's exhausted, and lonely, and _sad_. He does excellent work, at the expense of _himself_, and no one bothers to say 'thank you'. He isn't _like _Harvey; he can't work a hundred hours a day knowing it'll _eventually_ pay off, and be satisfied with that.

It gets harder as time stretches longer, and he has to wonder. _Is it worth it_?

_...Maybe I'll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are_. He cries bitter tears into the crook of hot hands.

No. It isn't worth it.

* * *

Jessica was expecting three emails. One from Wiley Henson, one from Mecca Funds Incorporated, and one from the District Attorney's Office. No less than three. Her inbox counted _four_ _new messages_, and she frowned at the unexpected turn of events. She opened her inbox with a somewhat pathetic sense of trepidation, and prepared for the worst.

Her eyes flickered like needlepoint searchlights, and paused. "Mike Ross?" Her frown deepened. Why the hell...? She clicked on the bolded name, and waited patiently for the message to appear. Jessica was more curious than she cared to admit. Mike was an interesting kid, rebellious and witty. She's grown a little bit fond of the classic movie quotes and near constant strokes of brilliance. He _is _one in a million, invaluable despite the illegality of his presence in her firm.

Words filled her screen, and she scanned through one dark line of text at a time. Her face hardened like a great fortress, and her mouth thinned into an angry line. Confusion and red hot vindication were brewing up in her like a tropical storm off a grey coastline. Answers. _Now_.

_Dear Ms. Pearson,_

_This is my formal notification that I am resigning from Pearson Hardman as your Junior Associate. Wednesday, February 13th, was my last day of employment._  
_I appreciate the opportunities I have been given here, and wish you much success in the future._

_Sincerely,_  
_Michael Ross._


	2. Crutches

_A/n: ...Hey, guys. It's been a long time. A year? _

_...I have no excuse..._

_The new season is on, so I really have no excuse. This story had one hell of a reception, you guys seem to love it, so I can't not update. And I love it too! I got a lot of great reviews, but my thanks go out to Harvey and Mike [the guest reviewers]. I got Harvey's review first, and I...I felt like a chastised child. "Why have you not updated the story yet, Hardwood Studios?" My full pen-name! I was like, "Oh, shit." _

_Fair warning to all, I've been watching the new season [obviously] and I'm very, very angry. This new season is going exactly like I thought it would, and it's infuriating! My views on the whole thing should be pretty clear from...this entire story. Mike works hard, Harvey can be a dick. A lot. Harvey has been a magnificent dick, this entire season! And then the whole thing with Louis and the cake...I almost cried for Louis. Damn near burst into tears. Mike is too forgiving. _

_Well. Not in this story, he's not. Let's have fun with this, yeah? _

_Song of Choice: She Spider, by Mew. Very angsty and introspective. Thanks to my new beta-reader, helping me through my multiple coffee breaks and backspacing. Thanks, girl. _

* * *

_9:00 a.m._

It was nine o'clock. Harvey ignores the incessant ticking and tocking of the wall clock. He rolls a pink highlighter between his fingers, uncaps it, recaps it, uncaps it. He glares. And glares some more. He flips absently through a fat, unopened file. He sees a lot of words, and pretends to read them. Frowning, he abandons the file. He picks up his phone, glares at it, puts it back down. He looks at the clock.

_9:01 a.m. _

He stabs the end of his highlighter at the intercom. "Donna."

"_No, Mike is not here. For the twelfth time._" She says, a bit snippish.

He glares at the intercom.

"_Don't glare, you'll get wrinkles._"

"Don't tell me what to do." He sounds petulant, he knows it. He makes a quiet, grumpy noise. He looks at the clock.

_9:02 a.m._

Snatching up his phone, he dials a very, very familiar number. Dial tone, dial tone, dial tone. Voicemail. The same voicemail. "Goddamnit." He snarls, his face twisting up. Harvey has called sixteen times, now seventeen. Mike won't answer. Which means one of two things. Mike is ignoring him, or Mike lost his phone. The latter seems most likely, but that doesn't explain his lateness. Because Mike is five hours and three minutes late. And he very specifically said...

Harvey stops. He remembers what he said. "_I want you in the office at four, Mike. You will fix this, and maybe I'll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are._" He grimaces. A bit harsher than intended, but their relationship is founded on tough love. Mike knows that, and Mike should know better than to volunteer for shit he can't handle. His associate is not so fragile, as to let some harsh words keep him from coming to work. He looks at the clock.

_9:04 a.m._

Five hours and four minutes late. His fingers tighten about his phone, tiny cracks blossoming on the screen. He wants to throw it. He wants to break something. Then he hears the clickity clackity of heels, and he knows that distinct clickity clack. Jessica Pearson, as tall and dusky as an Amazon wonder. She wears power like she wears her Dior, extraordinarily well. Her umber curls settle in her collarbones, and her lined eyes spit fire. She walks into his office like she has every right to the place, and she does.

She says, "Mike isn't coming." Very bluntly, very suddenly. Harvey frowns something deep and suspicious. He gives her an unreadable look. "I'm sorry?"

"Mike is not coming." She repeats. Her face is stern, sterner than normal. Angry, almost. Harvey stands, his eyebrows shooting into his hair. She presents him with a single paper, still warm from the printer. He reads it, and his expression remains that hard, neutral slate. Though his insides are humming like a mass swarm.

..._I am resigning from Pearson Hardman as your Junior Associate_. He reads this line several times, not quite believing what it says. Because Mike doesn't quit, he doesn't resign. Harvey swallows, a bad taste filling his mouth. He wants to not care, to shrug it off. If Mike is so goddamn delicate, as to quit over a rightful chewing out, then good riddance. Pearson Hardman isn't the place for dropouts or hurt feelings. But Mike _doesn't quit_, and Harvey doesn't understand.

"I don't know what the hell you did, but you're out an associate." She says crisply, accusingly. Harvey doesn't say anything.

"Find Katrina. You're due in court." Then she turns, scarlet skirt swishing, and leaves. Harvey watches her go, having little else to do. His mind is miles away, operating at dangerous speeds. A hard, heavy ball sits in his gut. Mike quit. Mike _quit_. Goddamnit, he shouldn't care! He shouldn't care! Donna scuttles in, looking incredulous and terrifying. "What did you do?" She half whispers, half shouts. He grits his teeth. "I didn't do anything."

She pins him with this dry, doubtful stare.

"I didn't!"

"Mike doesn't quit, Harvey."

"Oh, so it's automatically my fault?"

Her green, green eyes get small and mean. "Do I need to get mad? Because I'll get mad."

He frowns tightly. "I reamed him out on the Carmical briefs, that's it. He fucked up." He finally admits. He sounds more defensive than he intends. Her brows knit, and her lips purse. "The Carmical briefs? Isn't that Katrina's thing?"

"Mike volunteered. He bit off more than he could chew, again."

She gives him this look, like he'd just said something utterly insane. Her mouth makes a tiny, red hole and her nose wrinkles like an old sweater. "Um, no. Mike was juggling your Double Merger, Insurance Fraud for Louis, and...some environmental dispute, I think. We had takeout in the file room like a couple of hermits. He didn't say a thing about the Carmical briefs."

And Harvey feels the beginnings of dread, a slow creep like rigor mortis. "That doesn't mean shit, Donna." But it does. It really, really does. It means Mike was working three times his fair workload. It means Katrina lied through her pretty, white teeth. It means Harvey was played the fool. It means he chewed Mike out, put him down like a stray, for no fucking reason. He remembers the things he said. They were unjustified, they were some of the cruelest things one can say. He whitens.

"What...exactly did you say to him?" Donna asks, soft and nervous. He remembers every word. He straightens, tugs at his cuffs, makes a show of nonchalance. Donna sees right through him, as she always does.

"I'm due in court."

She lets him go. He wishes she didn't.

* * *

He was discharged at six, the sun had barely risen. Given his crutches, sent on his way. His ankle was home to some new, shiny screws and plates. No heavy lifting, no excess walking. Awesome. Mike finds a familiar cabbie [Samson, he later learns] sitting in a familiar cab. He hadn't gone home, he'd waited. Like he said he would. Mike felt simultaneously thrilled and guilty to the point of sickness.

Then he went home. Of course, only then did he remember his bike. The same bike he'd left in the street. Goddamnit. Feeling a little high and a lot miserable, he struggled into his apartment. He sent his formal, bullshit resignation to Jessica. It was scary and final. He changed [after a long and exhausting battle], ignored the constant vibration of his phone, cried some more, and slept for a scant hour and a half. Again, Samson waited. Now he sits in the back of his favorite cab, leg outstretched, as Samson shoots him disapproving glances.

"You should be home. You need rest and recovery." Samson says huffily. He glares into the rearview mirror, though Mike doesn't notice. His nose is pressed to the crease of a newspaper, as he scans the classifieds with quick, needlepoint pupils. "No, Sam. I need a job."

"You can barely walk! You will not be hired like this!"

"Hey!" Mike snaps the paper down; it rustles wildly in his fists. "Do you know what this says to my prospective employers?" He points to his big, plastic cast. "It says I'm _ambitious_, a go getter! I'll work hell or high water, broken ankle or internal hemorrhaging."

"That is not healthy!" Samson spares him a terrified, side glance. Mike sighs into the classifieds.

"Probably not." He shifts. "Shouldn't you be...looking for other customers?" He changes the subject awkwardly, and not at all subtly.

Sam makes this sudden, offended noise in the far back of his throat. "I do not mind." Is all he says. Mike feels warm. Like noontime sunshine, yellow sprinkles through treetops. He feels guilty too. "I'm just one person, Sam."

"You're hurt. I do not mind." He repeats firmly, his fingers tightening around the wheel.

"You're too nice, man." Mike grins, big and toothy, despite himself.

The city rushes by in blues and greens and big, heavy greys. Traffic lights, cracked sidewalks, old buildings and new buildings. Silver beams and sunny Plexiglas, long rows of bumbling, yellow taxi cabs. People, back and forth by the hundreds, in bright colors and monochromatic schemes. The sun sits very high, shining like it'll never shine again. It warms the back seat, and the vinyl splits under concentrated, golden beams. Just another afternoon. Except it's not, and Mike knows that. His grin is quick to slip.

There, a short ways from 2nd Avenue, on E 9th, is a café. Mike squints. He almost overlooks the shady, nondescript storefront. A very dim place, with open windows and scarlet drapery, called Mudspot. Darkly bronze etchings and steel framework, it feels urban and lived in. Mike likes it immediately. "Down here, Sam." They turn, and saddle up close to the sidewalk. Mike takes both crutches in hand, looking horribly glum. He isn't thrilled about the crutches. Just as he opens the door and breathes in summer heat, his phone shudders.

He knows who it is, but he looks anyway. _Harvey_. For the seventeenth time. With a face like stone, he shoves his phone into its denim prison. The hurt is too fresh. He lets it ring. Sam gives him a familiar look, which he ignores. After a brief, exhausting battle with his crutches, he stands on the one, shaky leg. He steadies himself and wobbles awkwardly into the small chophouse. It smells like a thousand coffee beans, eggs and ham, tea leaves.

Rusty red bricks, and matching vases full of floppy, yellow tulips. It feels a lot like home, better than home. The place vibrates with chatter, patrons flitting about like honey bees. "Hi, Welcome to Mudspot!" A cheerful employee calls to him, smiling bright enough to blind. He hobbles closer, and leans heavy against the countertop. She laughs a breathy, incredulous laugh. "That must suck." She looks pointedly at his crutches.

He scowls playfully. "You have no idea."

"What can I get you? Would you like to try our Green Apple & Cinnamon Cobbler? It'll rock your world." Her eyes, mint green, shine under the smoky light bulbs. Undeniably flirtatious. Mike burns a very noticeable pink. "Uh, no. I'm actually here to ask about a job?"

"Oh!" Her face slackens in surprise. She gives him a once over, and quirks a dubious brow. He shrugs sheepishly. "Hold on, I'll get you an application." She finally concedes. Mike watches her, imprints her to memory. Her hair is too blonde and too straight. Not enough gel. Her face is pretty and soft and feminine, light touches of makeup. Too soft, too feminine, too much makeup. Not enough moles. Mike frowns. She comes back and hands him a disconcertingly thick packet. He takes it with a strained smile. "Have fun." She winks, mascara laden lashes kissing caramel freckles.

He can't think of anything witty to say. He hobbles away with his tail between his legs, and finds the dimmest, quietest table in a far back nook. He produces a pen from his back pocket [you never know when you'll need a pen], and works through the considerable packet one question at a time. His crutches lean precariously against the brick wall, and his booted leg is propped on the opposite chair. He feels sort of like a circus sideshow. Foolish, put on display.

Suddenly, a vaguely familiar voice reaches him. Strong, woody, low like distant thunder claps. "Mike Ross, isn't it?"

He turns, and sees a vaguely familiar man. Tall, broad, donning a suit by Alexander Price with its thousands of individual stitches. Handsome, in that outdoorsy way. Carefully shaggy, fallow hair and big [but not overbearing] brows. Sparse, short hairs matt his jaw and myrtle green eyes shine like river stones. They've met before, at a particularly pretentious fundraiser in Greenwich Village. Then the name comes to him like a holy epiphany, and he nearly swallows his tongue. Noah Aimes, of Fitzgerald & Aimes. A big, connected, rival [not really rival, he doesn't exactly work for the competition anymore] firm.

"Mr. Aimes, I'm surprised you remember me." He maintains a modicum of polite coolness, but his insides are a panicky mess. He extends a hand, and is shocked half to death when the man actually shakes it. Noah chuckles. "You remembered me, didn't you?"

"Yes, but you're..." He makes a few, abstract gestures. "Important." He finishes lamely. Noah laughs a full, rich laugh. Mike blushes hotly.

"And you aren't? The rising star of Pearson Hardman?" Mike notices his word choice. The _rising star of Pearson Hardman_, not _Harvey's golden boy _or anything of the like. He appreciates the unwitting change of phrase.

"Not anymore." He shrugs awkwardly, not sure he should be admitting this to a formerly rival Partner. Noah looks taken back, both brows soaring into his fringe. "I, uh...I quit." He explains. And Noah calms quickly. His eyes shine with something strange and unidentifiable. He nods to the almost finished packet. "Don't tell me that's an application." He actually sounds offended. Mike colors pink, and he really wishes he would stop blushing.

"Ah, yeah." And he feels like a pauper before a prince. Outclassed in every way. "I happen to like this place!" He says jokingly, a little defensiveness creeping into his voice. Noah raises his hands in mock surrender. "I like it too, I'm a regular customer." He glances around very deliberately. "Isn't this a little beneath you?"

"What do you mean?" Mike pinches a frown.

"Why'd you quit?" He asks, instead of answering. "Didn't have anything to do with that leg, did it?"

"I...No." Not entirely, anyway. Only mostly. Mike is unnerved by his attentiveness, his curiosity [because no one usually gives a shit about Mike Ross].

"How long do you have to wear it, the cast?"

"Six weeks." By now, Mike is rightfully suspicious. Noah seems to sense his suspicion, and smiles something delightful and warm. "I'm just curious, Mike."

"Why?" He sounds harsher than he means, but Noah doesn't notice. Or he just doesn't care.

"You're not a drone, you're clever." He begins, a hint of admiration in him. "I know all about you. I know you have an eidetic memory, a frighteningly high IQ. I know you work hard, and you win cases. You're one of a kind, Mike Ross. I was actually jealous of Harvey. He had your loyalty, I could tell."

After such a speech, Mike should be well beyond disturbed. A small part of him is, but the rest of him is flattered stupid. He blinks, and blinks again. His lips flap uselessly. He doesn't know what to say. "I...Thank you?" It comes out confused, more of a question than a definite statement. Noah smiles. Stark, white teeth and charm. "Don't thank me. Just say yes."

"To what?"

"I want to offer you a job, Mike."

He says this so casually, that it catches Mike completely off guard. His brain stutters and stumbles, and he doesn't get it. Because Mike is just a nobody associate [er, former nobody associate], and he barely know this [rich, powerful, terrifying] man. He stares blankly, just processing. Then he understands, and the beginnings of panic crawl up his throat like weeds. "I'd have to say no, I'm sorry." His voice shakes finely, and he swallows. Noah doesn't look put off, but curious.

"You'd rather work here?"

Sweat beads at the back of his neck, and he shifts [squirms] in his seat. "I...wouldn't feel comfortable working for the competition." Which is true. A big piece of Mike is still loyal to Harvey, always will be. Noah makes a considering noise. "We're not competition anymore, Mike."

"I still-"

"If you're concerned about your lack of a diploma, don't be. Harvey didn't seem to mind, neither do I." Again, the epitome of casual. Mike chokes on nothing. His eyes get big, impossibly big, nearly popping out of their sockets. His heart drops and jumps and stops, he might be having a small anxiety attack. "I don't know what you're talking about." He immediately denies.

"I think you do."

They engage in a short [but intense] staring contest, in which Mike cracks like a particularly soft egg. "Why didn't you...? I-I don't understand. You could've-!"

"I could've done many things. I could've had you arrested, had Harvey arrested. I could've brought Pearson Hardman to its knees." And he shrugs, like it's not a big deal. It's a very big deal! It's a huge deal! Mike is struggling with this entire conversation, rendered speechless at every turn. Never has he been so thoroughly stupefied, flabbergasted, dumbstruck. "But you didn't." He says slowly.

"I didn't." Noah agrees.

"Why?" The big question. By this point, Mike is extremely curious. Noah looks him evenly in the eye, as cold sober as one man can be.

"If I had, well, I wouldn't have the chance to hire you myself."

Mike stares in pure awe. Noah doesn't give him the chance to collect himself. He flips a business card onto the table, landing squarely on his application, and turns to leave. "Think about it." He calls over his shoulder. As cool as a goddamn cucumber. Mike is left gaping and mentally flailing. He looks down at the business card. Clean, neat, elegant script.

"Did that just happen?"

* * *

Harvey stalks from the courtroom, Katrina hot on his heels. They'd dominated, crushed the opposition and their every argument with unnecessary ruthlessness [or Harvey did, anyway]. As it turns out, Katrina had finished the Carmical briefs. Practically gift wrapped them. Then said something like, "I just knew Mike wouldn't get these done on time." Harvey wasn't one to hit a woman, his father raised him to be a gentleman, but the urge was strong. Almost too strong.

He restrained himself, just barely. But in their brief time together, his restraint wore thin. He tightens his jaw against the building tirade, and walks faster. He has to keep his head, at least until they leave the courthouse. Long, purposeful strides. Katrina can't keep up, she has to jog. She isn't blind to the rigid straightness of his spine, or the subtle grinding of his teeth. She doesn't say anything, partly out of respect. Mostly out of fear.

They reach the car in record time, slide into their respective sides, and Ray sets off without bothering to ask where. For a long while, nothing is said. Just the faint squeaking of leather, and far away horns. Harvey holds himself tensely, and Katrina watches like he were a loaded gun. Then he explodes, though you wouldn't know by the utter calmness of his face. He turns to her, looking mildly curious. "Tell me something about Anderson Global. Have we found anything to back Amelia's asbestos claim?"

"Not yet." She answers, not missing a beat.

"Have you gone through their employee records?"

"They haven't been faxed over. They're taking their time." Again, without pause. Harvey frowns, as though perplexed. "That's funny. Donna said something about those files sitting in Conference Room B."

Katrina looks stricken, paling and flushing all at once. She clears her throat, trying for a confused demeanor. "Oh, I must've - "

"Enough." Harvey drops the act, the interrogation. His frown deepens into a scowl.

"Excuse me?" And she puts on this brave, affronted face. Harvey sees right through it, she might as well be made of glass. "Mike has already taken care of it." He says.

"Why would he - "

"Cut the bullshit. You dropped your case on him, your one responsibility."

"I didn't - !" She doesn't get the chance to spin some halfhearted fabrication. Harvey won't hear it.

"You did, just like you lied about the Carmical briefs. Mike didn't volunteer. Whatever childish shit you're trying to pull, it ends here. You're done." He bites out, each word harder and sharper than the last. She straightens in her seat, seeming to sprout a backbone. Her face wrinkles, and her eyes flash dimly. "You have no idea what the story is between me and Mike." She defends.

"I don't care what the story is." He spits. Whatever war or rivalry wages between them, it shouldn't interfere with their work. To let something so petty control your professional life, well, that isn't very professional at all.

"You hired me, and then you hung me out to dry. You don't give me cases, you don't give me a word. What am I supposed to do?" She asks, accusation and desperation coloring her voice. Harvey isn't exactly sympathetic, quite the opposite. "We both know how you got here. You expect more from me, that's not my problem." He says offhandedly, like she should know better. She gets this confident air about her suddenly, and she smiles.

"I do know how I got here, which is how I know you're not going to fire me. So keep your empty threats to yourself."

Her tone digs under his skin like a baby splinter, impossible to reach. His jaw tightens and spasms. "When I said you're done, I meant your future with this firm is over. Because you will never be anything more than you are right now. And," He says as an afterthought. "If you ever do anything like that to Mike Ross again, I don't give a shit what our deal was. You'll be gone." He means it, she can see the diehard seriousness in him. It frightens her, more than anything else. His voice. His tone, his face. Harvey Specter is a force [unlike any other] not to be reckoned with, because he'll chew you up and ruin anything you might be.

Harvey glances out the window. Pearson Hardman stands tall [touching the clouds, or so it seems] and shines like a beacon in the sunlight. "Get out."

She does, as fast as she can. He gives Ray a different address, one in the Bronx. Ray knows the place, and he knows who lives there, so he doesn't ask. The ride is one of his most quiet ones. Harvey is too caught up in his own head, he doesn't notice much else. Mike is on his brain, and has been for the longest time. He can hear his own, harsh words. Over and over again, he hears them. Mike tried to interrupt, explain himself. Harvey wouldn't listen.

Now Mike is hurting, and Harvey is out an associate. Not just an associate, but the best associate. His associate. He could go on winning cases without Mike, of course, but it wouldn't be the same. It would be routine, an obligation, a means to an end. With Mike, work isn't just work. Work is fun. Finding loopholes, schooling the opposition, back and forth banter, stupid references. Harvey can admit he likes to show off in front of Mike. He likes the awed glances, the camaraderie, the fist bumps.

Loves it, actually.

Harvey might not need Mike, but he wants Mike. Badly. He doesn't say it enough, or at all [he can hardly admit it to himself]. He should though. He will, as soon as Mike comes back to work. Because as much as he loathes to admit it, he cares. A lot. So much, it fucking hurts. Mike makes him warm, and he isn't used to all this warmth. It scares him, and he doesn't scare easily. He would hide behind pretty, feminine faces and nonchalance. He can't hide anymore. He has to take action. Mike means more than his pride, so he'll apologize. He'll prove he cares.

They stop, and Harvey is thrown from his heavy introspection. He climbs from his car, and glares mistrustfully at the seedy building. He pays [paid, he reminds himself bitterly] Mike handsomely, surely he can afford better living accommodations. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he makes the short trek to Mike's floor. A few, suspicious characters pass him on the way up. He fears for Mike's general safety. Suddenly, he's standing before a door. Mike's door. He tries the knob. Locked, because nothing is that easy.

He knocks. No answer. Leaning close, he listens. Faint shuffling sounds within, and Harvey huffs. He knocks again, a little harder. Still no answer. "Mike!" He calls, all but banging on the door. It trembles on its rusty hinges. "I'm not leaving, Mike!" He calls again, louder.

"Go away."

Harvey stops, and glares at the door like it might collapse under the sheer weight of his eyes. A plausible notion. "I'm not going away."

Mike doesn't say anything, so he resumes his violent knocking.

It swings open, squealing and groaning. Mike stands on the other side, stiff and scowling. Harvey doesn't get shocked or visibly surprised [ever], but when he sees Mike [in all his broken glory, cast and crutches and the whole shebang] his heart jumps into his throat. For the first time, he doesn't have a clue. Words, his weapon of choice, elude him. "Mike?"


End file.
